


Dusty Road Curvature

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:19:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a deliriously hot day and Alfred has no proper clothes and a dirty Truck. Things are made slightly better by having Arthur around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusty Road Curvature

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ September 2, 2010. 
> 
> The prompt was for USUK to wash cars together.

Alfred isn’t doing much that day. Well, aside from the fact that he is digging around the mountains of dirty clothes searching for clean underwear. He has the habit of neglecting his laundry in the heat of the summer, especially when he isn’t staying in New York or Washington D.C., and instead spending his days in the rural back roads of the United States. He likes the cities for their own eccentricities, but he enjoys the rural homes because that way when he has a flat tire he can just pick up his car one-handed and drag it home if he absolutely must, and no one will bat an eyelash because no one will see him. His home is the only one for a few miles, and whenever neighbors come to visit, he can see their car coming up the dusty road as far as half a mile away.   
  
The point was, he is kind of doing laundry today. Only kind of, because he tends to forget about the laundry when the bulk of his days are spent farming, or horseback riding, or rolling into town to sing karaoke with the locals, using the opening of a beer bottle as the microphone—drunk and uproariously fun. But he always notices the laundry situation as soon as he runs out of boxers, which is currently his situation. It’s hard to remember to do laundry when there’s no one around to remind him (though sometimes when Matthew visits he’ll make some kind of snide remark about how his house smells like stale bread and opossums, though Alfred can’t quite figure out _how_ that’s supposed to smell or how his brother knows this combination).   
  
Regardless, he’s picking through the clothes tossed around his room, wading through the smell that would probably be only generously described as stale—he really needed to clean. He’s searching mainly for underwear—even tighty-whiteys would be better than anything, though he would prefer some boxers. (He adamantly denied owning tighty-whiteys.) It’s the second day he’s gone heroically commando and he’s quickly learning that it is not nearly as fun as previously advertised or suggested. That was the last time he took Francis’ advise, especially since it brought up the alarming images of Francis not having any underwear even though he _always_ wore such stupidly tight pants. Even with Alfred’s slightly loose jeans, he fears chaffing as an unfortunate consequence of his laziness.   
  
He’s in the middle of his heroic search when he can hear the distant sound of tires crunching on dry dirt road. He looks up through the large window facing south, and watches that dust-cloud. It means that someone is driving up towards his ranch. He straightens, kicking away some slightly stiff (a rather alarming realization) t-shirts and wading through fallen cotton casualties to stand at the window, wrenching it open and waiting for the car to park up next to his beat-up red pick-up truck.   
  
He already knows who it is, and is not surprised when it is Arthur who parks his dusty rented car and grumbles, climbing from the car while adjusting his tie, grabbing his briefcase, and successfully looking as if a rat has crawled up his ass and died. Alfred can’t help but grin though, upon seeing him—it is a completely goofy reaction, but one he always can’t help when it comes to seeing Arthur and having Arthur near him.   
  
Alfred pushes his head out the window and waves at Arthur, only dimly realizing that he is holding three pairs of (clean?) boxers in his hand. It is belated, and Arthur’s resulting look of thinly veiled disgust is, admittedly, far too satisfying. Alfred’s grin widens.   
  
“Come on up, the door’s open!” he calls, and then pulls himself back inside. He leaves the window open, as the wafting breeze is comforting, and if his room really did smell like stale bread and opossums, hopefully the smell would whisk outside before Arthur could come upstairs and bitch at him about it.   
  
There’s a rush of wind as the door behind him opens and it feels as if there is a vacuum for one moment and Alfred forgets to breathe, the corners of his eyes crinkling happily as he turns to face Arthur, who is once again adjusting his tie, as if torn between loosening or tightening it. Alfred’s eyes are on the way he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in that delightful way it always does when he’s about to say something in that slightly husky voice of his.   
  
“Hey, Arthur,” Alfred greets, after counting a beat.   
  
The room seems to have gotten impossibly denser, despite the open window ruffling the curtains. It is heavy and tangible as Arthur walks in, looking down with utmost distaste at the mountains of dirty clothing, the jumble of unmade bed, the unvacuumed carpet—everything that just showcases Alfred’s current bout of summer lethargy and laziness. The air is thick in Alfred’s nose and throat, and it almost feels as if the air displaces around Arthur, struggling to find a reason, a purpose, that he should be here in the midst of all of Alfred’s chaos and spontaneity. Truly Arthur is his antithesis—everything he is not, everything he will never be or wants to be or perhaps deep down wishes he could be. He is the propriety to Alfred’s indecency, the order to his chaos, the _we have to get up right now and get to the meeting_ to Alfred’s _but I just want to stay in bed and hold you all morning._  
  
“I hope you realize that your house is a right mess, and—” is as far as Arthur gets before his gaze drifts away from the messiness and settles on Alfred properly, and then he snorts, loudly, as if in disbelief. He has that face he gets at times, when he’s trying his hardest not to smile or laugh, for fear of encouraging a behavior of Alfred’s that Arthur has deemed unsightly. Alfred, despite realizing he’s being laughed at, likes that Arthur’s lecture has at least been temporarily derailed.   
  
“What?” Alfred asked, letting go of the boxers he is holding in his hand and letting them rejoin the massacre on the floor.   
  
Arthur still looks vaguely amused, enough so that Alfred is a bit miffed that he doesn’t facilitate this amusement or slight good mood into a _hello again_ kiss. But beggars can’t be choosers, and despite his soured look coming up to his house, he at least looks more at peace now—and Alfred wants to believe that it’s because of him that Arthur can relax a little.   
  
“What are you wearing?” Arthur asks, trying his hardest to betray nothing on his face, trying to smooth his expression out to a perfect deadpan—but the slight quirk of his lips suggests otherwise. It’s the kind of expression he gets when they watch Monty Python together and Arthur is still unsure whether or not he wants to bust his gut laughing in front of Alfred.  
  
Alfred’s brows knit together and he looks down at his outfit, unsure what the reason for amusement could be—he’d definitely worn worse before. Truthfully, he’s surprised it could cause such mirth for Arthur. True, he wasn’t laughing hysterically at it, but considering how stony face Arthur can manage to be around Alfred, it is an accomplishment.   
  
“Clothes,” he settles on.  
  
Arthur snorts again, and this time when he self-consciously tugs at his tie, he loosens it and there’s one sliver of new skin exposed to Alfred’s eyes and he’s definitely staring at Arthur’s neck.   
  
“I can see that,” Arthur drawls.  
  
Alfred is wearing the last remaining morsels of clean clothing he has at his disposal. The majority of his decent clothing are back in his apartment in D.C., and the clothing left at his ranch in the first place is the stuff he doesn’t mind slouching around in—but what he’s wearing now is really and truly the bottom of the barrel. His jeans are from the 1970s, and quite possibly haven’t seen the light of day since about two decades ago—though the holes and tears would suggest otherwise. The pants are practically in tatters, with holes in the knees, along his thighs, his belt loops worn thin from use and the hems frayed at the bottom. Never mind they have a ridiculous flare to them that would have fit right in during Alfred’s unfortunate disco phase. Most of the holes are haphazardly sewn together, while others have been liberally ripped (during Alfred’s Nirvana phase, not as unfortunate as the disco phase). There were a few patches he’d sewn on during the 1990s, and portrayed copious amounts of his bands, and a few smiling faces. And one of a retro Mario on Yoshi. He liked that patch, maybe he should salvage it from this sorry excuse for a pair of jeans and put it on something useful—like his briefcase. Kiku would probably get a kick out of it, if anything else.   
  
Alfred likes to think that though the pants are rather goofy, and though he is free-ballin’, at least he’s wearing a pretty harmless shirt along with it, though the colors are probably rather sore. The plethora of patches creates a nice spectrum of colors, whereas his shirt is faded, slightly stained from ketchup and mustard after a few July fourth barbeques, and slightly stained at the pits from hard work out in the baking sun. But at least it’s white—well, kind of white. It’s actually a faded pinkish white because he’d accidentally thrown the shirt in along with a red sweater back in 1988 when he’d finally stopped calling Matthew for laundry advise.   
  
Now under normal, ordinary circumstances, Alfred doesn’t think that Arthur would find this amusing, and doesn’t think that Arthur would laugh. What definitely helps his case is that he’s out in the middle of nowhere and no one but Arthur will ever, ever see him in this outfit. And he knows that Arthur is too much of a gentleman to take a picture of him and inflate it to put into a presentation at a world meeting—Arthur is far too professional for that. Though unfortunately Arthur could be quite good with the blackmail thing when he wanted to be. Alfred kind of hoped now wasn’t one of those times.   
  
Arthur, in the meantime, seems to be getting some semblance of control back to his neutral expression, his lips tightening and his arms folding across his chest. “Please tell me you did not go out in public like that, Alfred.”  
  
Alfred flaps his hand about in a blatant dismissal. “Not that there _is_ much of a public around these parts. You’re the first person I’ve seen in days!”   
  
“Thank god, otherwise I’d hate to think what your people would think upon seeing you in such a state,” Arthur says, and there is a slight twitch to his mouth that suggests his earlier mirth was far from gone.  
  
Alfred grins, feeling slightly hysteric and just overly happy to have Arthur near him again—it’d been too long since the man had come to visit him, and the last world meeting they’d both attended had been long enough. He’d missed Arthur, though he would never admit it to him. This realization just adds to his earlier frustration that Arthur isn’t stepping closer so that Alfred can kiss him hello and remind him as to why it was bad to be away from his touch for so long.   
  
“I don’t think you have a right to talk,” Alfred says, grinning stupidly, feeling light and airy and overly ridiculous and not caring because it’s _Arthur_ and he’s right there—stuffy, overly proper, and with that stupidly endearing accent of his.   
  
“Is that so?” Arthur mutters, eyeing the pile of dirty underwear Alfred had earlier exhumed from the crypt of clothing long staled.   
  
“I recall you wearing an ascot on a number of occasions,” Alfred points out, and adds, “And you wear your scarves in a totally girly way.”   
  
Predictably, Arthur flares up like an insulted bird and god, Alfred should not love it when he does that as much as he _does._   
  
He’s scowling in that way that Alfred loves, even if it means Arthur’s angry with him, or at least annoyed. “First of all, that is completely irrelevant. Secondly, a cravat is a perfectly acceptable piece of clothing—and, thirdly, I merely work hard to secure my scarf lest it fly away in the wind.”   
  
Leave it to Arthur to sort out all his arguments and number them for Alfred. Alfred is still grinning, still deliriously happy, still wanting to sweep Arthur up into his arms and kiss him until he forgets about cravats and goofy scarf-tying and his stupid outfit.   
  
“You’re just jealous,” Alfred decides, smoothing his hands over his paled pink, stained shirt and jutting his hip to the side in a way he hopes will make Arthur’s breath catch.  
  
It does—he can hear it hitch even from across the room, and Alfred grins in triumph.   
  
But the words are settling into Arthur’s brain and exploding and he gives Arthur the very epitome of _are you fucking kidding me?_ condensed into a withering stare.   
  
Arthur gets as far as an outraged, remarkably-like-an-insulted-bird-ruffled “Jealous—!” before Alfred decides that, yes, he does want to close the distance between himself and Arthur and lunges forward, wrapping his arms around Arthur. Arthur releases a very sophisticated “ _Oof_ —oh fuck!” before Arthur is landing into a pile of clothes, cushioning his fall, with Alfred on top of him. Arthur struggles, and for his affectionate troubles Alfred gets a bony elbow to the solar plexus as his knee pushes down onto Arthur’s thigh.   
  
Arthur takes advantage of the slight wheezing gasping in his ear and grabs Alfred’s arms, wrenching them away from him in his attempts to get off the pile of questionable clothing scattered across Alfred’s floor. And he has this remarkable talent of looking both exasperated and amused at once, and his lips are quirking slightly even as he scowls.   
  
“Alfred—”  
  
“Oof,” Alfred gasps out, trying to reclaim much needed air.  
  
“I think you’re the one who’s jealous of my superior fashion skills,” Arthur says triumphantly, successfully pinning Alfred to the pile of clothes while straddling him—and his tie is loose and oh god he should not be as beautiful as he is, in a dirty room that Matthew says smells like stale opossums or something, with the light shining in the window behind him and reflecting in his hair—darker than Alfred’s own but still a pretty color—and his eyebrows furrowed.   
  
“Is that what we’re calling it, then?” Alfred cracks back, squirming from Arthur’s hold, bucking up his hips in a way that was meant to launch Arthur off him but only makes him want to throw Arthur onto the bed. But Arthur does lose balance slightly and Alfred shoves him, playfully, so that the older man goes rolling away, cushioned yet again by the collection of dirty sweatshirts that Alfred never needs in this suffocating and humid summer heat.   
  
Alfred rolls after him, but Arthur is reaching to his stained shirt, as if intending to rip it off him and normally this would be much appreciated on Alfred’s part but now it’s really his only clean shirt and the look on Arthur’s face is careful patience and not stunned arousal.   
  
“You look ridiculous,” Arthur insists, but Alfred slaps his hands away—two can play at that game.  
  
“Your face looks ridiculous,” Alfred shoots back, and grins.  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Take it off.”  
  
“No way, dude.”  
  
“Yes way,” Arthur says with a cluck of his tongue and Alfred half-hopes he’ll say ‘dude’, too, but he doesn’t and that’s okay because it doesn’t suit him. He’s also half-hoping and half-dreading that Arthur will unleash the pet names, because they always make Alfred want to melt, always makes him feel loved and needed and _wanted_ , even if some of them sounded silly even to his own ears, but who can say no to someone calling you _my dear_ or _my darling_ or _my lovely_ without any trace of irony or embarrassment?   
  
“No,” Alfred protests.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Alfred could continue in this fashion for quite a while, but Arthur is not that patient. Truthfully, Alfred would be happy to get out of the outfit if only he had an alternative—and if Arthur was willing to get naked with him, he would be flinging these ridiculous pants off in an instance. But Arthur isn’t in the mood, possibly from the heat, possibly for the dumb, work-related reason he’d come here (if only Alfred could remember _why_ he was here—then he could think of the reasons why he can’t do it).   
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, and the way he grits his teeth hints at genuine irritation.  
  
“No,” Alfred says, yet again, and tries to pin Arthur down. But Arthur wriggles again, out from under Alfred’s arm and around, pouncing on his back with a rather agile tilt of his back that Alfred is almost jealous of.   
  
Alfred, naturally, has the super-strength at his disposal and if had been truly motivated could fling Arthur out the window with a well-placed backhand—but obviously for numerous reasons that was out of the question, and not even a possibility. Despite his strength (god-awful, Arthur calls it at times) Arthur has hundreds of years of fighting with several brothers, all out to cause him some true harm. And Arthur has thus used those years of living and fighting as means to garner enough tricks as to make the ensuing wrestling match actually a match and not just a throw-down from Alfred’s end.   
  
Arthur twists and writhes and wriggles away from Alfred, in a flurry of small kicks that don’t cause real damage—because he’s not trying to—and in the face of all of Alfred’s grace of movement and his brute force, Arthur is able to angle himself away without much trouble. Arthur squirms and grabs him, twists around him, away from him, above him—whirling by him, like walking on a freeway and there he was only be gone again and he reaches out and there’s nothing. And he feels winded, as if he has lost something only for it to return and god he just wants to hold Arthur. Arthur wraps his legs around Alfred’s hips and rolls them over after Alfred tries to pin his chest between his shins and hold him tight. It goes, over and over. Every time Arthur makes headway in trying to distract Alfred and pull his stupid shirt off, however, Alfred himself wiggles away, slides and pins Arthur, his hot breath passing over his neck, over the line of his jaw—wanting to touch, aching to touch— _missed you, always miss you._   
  
But this isn’t a time to bare his soul to Arthur, or to start getting stupidly sappy and mushy—because this is probably the most hilarious tug-of-war he’s ever been in and he’s in it with Arthur, of all people, and it’s over something as asinine and mundane as a shirt with a few stains and unfortunate laundry incidents. It’s ridiculous. And he’s determined to win.   
  
Alfred started out laughing—loud puffs of breathless guffaws in Arthur’s ears that usually caused the older man to cringe—but they end up gasping. Arthur, straddling Alfred’s thighs. Alfred, shirt still on but hitched up, threatening to tear. Alfred’s mouth goes dry as Arthur stares down at him, eyes hooded, chest huffing from exertion. Alfred is panting, his shirt hitched in a way that exposes his slightly rounded belly and the bottom arch of his ribs. Alfred can see Arthur’s brain stutter to a satisfying halt as he takes in the sight and their position for one glorious quarter of a second and all Alfred can think, absurdly, stupidly, deliriously is— _Call me by a pet name_ —and Arthur’s eyes flare open from their hooded state, pupils wide, eyes bright. It’s almost as if Alfred can see, in slow-motion no less, the way Arthur’s heart hitches, the way his body shudders, the way he gives in and curls into Alfred—  
  
Except that he doesn’t and instead slaps Alfred upside the head.  
  
“Ow!”   
  
“Fuck,” Arthur says, breathes, in a way that isn’t frustration. He pulls himself off Alfred, brushes himself off and adjusts his tie—damn him.   
  
Alfred stays on his back, remains lying there in a dim hope that Arthur will just get in the mood already and jump him and have his wicked way with him right there on his dirty floor lined with dirty clothing.  
  
But instead, Arthur kicks away the dirty underwear they’d thankfully avoided during their little tiff.   
  
Alfred is still watching him, frowns slightly—even though in the back of his head he tells himself that he shouldn’t frown, can’t frown. He can’t frown if Arthur is here, the protests in his brain exclaim—that’s not the proper response to having Arthur here with him, right there. Standing over him. Looking at him (or at least looking at his underwear—that was intimate!). But another part of him, persistent and uncertain and prideful when it came to Arthur, when it came to admitting how happy he was to see him, how much he missed him, how much he wanted to kiss him—that part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop. That part of him is expecting that eventually that shoe will fall, drop, roll. It’s been so long since he’s seen Arthur, been with Arthur, been able to touch Arthur—and he thinks (thought) that putting an end to awful, expectant waiting should almost be a relief but instead it only makes his gut wrench and twist and he’s lying on the floor and aching for Arthur to come back to him even when Arthur’s standing right there. Right there.   
  
So he knots his hands in the dirty clothes and grins up at Arthur in a way that is only half-truthful but fully affectionate, expectant, desiring. Arthur. _Arthur._   
  
“So what’re you doing here, Arthur?” Alfred asks, to break the silence—but it isn’t what he wants to say, he wants Arthur to come closer to him, to forget his reasons and just sink into him.  
  
“You know exactly why I’m here,” Arthur says with a disdainful sniff, eyeing Alfred’s shirt. He sighs. “Or did you forget?”  
  
Alfred scrapes his memory but apparently he can’t remember fast enough for Arthur’s satisfaction, and he rolls his eyes and clucks slightly with his tongue in a way that seems almost indecent only because Alfred is looking for something indecent.   
  
“The papers, remember? The articles?” Arthur says and Alfred vaguely realizes that his memory is indeed jogging to remember this, but apparently he still looks vacant. “Because your scanner or your fax or some ridiculousness isn’t working in this place you _made me come all the way out here_ just for your signature. For fuck’s sake.”   
  
“Oh,” Alfred says, intelligently.   
  
“And I’ll have you know your directions are utter shit,” Arthur continues, and it seems his earlier prissiness has returned and not even Alfred’s stupid outfit can remedy the lost mirth, “I got lost far too many times.”   
  
“That’s probably just because you suck.”   
  
Alfred’s grinning and Arthur’s ruffling up like a bird again and god Alfred wants to smooth all his ruffled feathers, in more ways than one.   
  
“And your house is a complete mess.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred admits, almost sounds sheepish.   
  
“When was the last time you did laundry?” Arthur asks, eyeing yet again Alfred’s outfit.  
  
Defeated, certain now that Arthur is not going to jump him and have his wicked way (damn), Alfred sits up and shrugs one shoulder. He climbs to his feet and stuffs his hands into his pockets, feels weird and awkward standing in his bedroom with Arthur despite being with him for a few years now.   
  
“Dunno, a few weeks, maybe? A month and a half?”  
  
Arthur makes a choked sound of great suffering and stoops down, collecting the clothes in his arms and shaking his head from side to side as if the world has caused him great injustice. Alfred watches him—or more specifically the way Arthur’s pants are clinging to his backside in just the right kind of way—and leans against the wall, trying to calm down. Wrestling Arthur had left him half-hard, and he is afraid it will become obvious if Arthur would actually pay attention and ow having an almost hard-on with no boxers really was going to lead to chaffing.   
  
“This is ridiculous. Come now,” Arthur says and Alfred bites back the _I can’t right this second, but soon_ , “We’ll do the laundry. I refuse to do work with you in such a messy environment.”  
  
“What are you, my maid?” Alfred asks and grunts when Arthur shoves the clothing into his arms with more force than necessary. He stumbles back a step and blinks owlishly at Arthur, who sniffs disdainfully, bending over to collect more of his clothes. “Besides,” Alfred says, carefully, “My dryer is broken.”  
  
“Is _everything_ in this house broken?” Arthur barks.  
  
“I’m going to fix the stuff!” Alfred protests, because truly he is good at fixing things that are broken (except maybe his economy, but that was another story). “I’m just… lazy right now. It’s the heat.”  
  
Arthur isn’t listening and is instead marching out of the room. “I suppose we’ll be line-drying then, won’t we?”  
  
Alfred almost snorts until he realizes that Arthur will be cleaning and line-drying his boxers and this makes him guffaw—then he follows after Arthur.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The day is deliriously hot, and after unearthing clotheslines from the garage, Alfred works at setting them up, connecting them between the large oak tree in the yard and attaching to the hooks in the side of his house. The shade is welcome respite, because he’s only been out for a few minutes and already he’s sweating and he wishes he had a pair of shorts instead of the Woodstock rejects of his bygone jeans era.   
  
From outside, looking in the window, he can see Arthur pulling out damp clothing into a basket and shoving more clothes into the washer, working with a look of a determination and his tie slung over his shoulder, the sleeves of his well-pressed button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. Alfred allows himself a moment of unashamed staring, drinking in the sight of Arthur—  
  
But Arthur is looking up and spotting him not working. He scowls, and shouts something though Alfred cannot hear it. So he just grins at him, lets the butterflies drift in and out of his stomach.   
  
He finishes setting up the clothesline and wanders back inside, making a beeline for the laundry room. Arthur looks up at him just as he straightens and flips the washer on. There are a few bins already of dampened clothes waiting for the line.   
  
“Help me with these,” Arthur instructs, as if it is his house, and picks up one of the baskets. Alfred stoops and picks up the remaining two, tucking one under each arm and following after Arthur as he makes his way towards the front door and out into the baking sun. He looks stupidly hot already in his tie and button-down shirt and (un)sensible pants. It’s only a matter of time before the sweat rolls down his neck and Alfred imagines licking it away, biting at his earlobe, kissing—  
  
Arthur drops the basket in the grass, avoiding the dust of the drive in front of his house. He makes a small humming sound, something that could almost be a song if Arthur ever sang when sober, and pulls the clothespins from his pants’ pockets. He begins hanging up Alfred’s clothes with such dexterity and so naturally that it becomes strangely intimate, and Alfred feels completely exposed and like melted butter—and not because of the sun. He drifts behind Arthur as he works.   
  
He begins helping Arthur before Arthur can begin to bitch.  
  
“What other chores have you been neglecting?” Arthur asks as he hangs up one of Alfred’s shirts, and even though it’s just made of cotton he smoothes it with deliberate care, as if running his hands over Alfred’s chest.   
  
Alfred swallows. “Um.”  
  
Arthur, for once, is patient and just bends over to pick up more clothes, and he can see the sweat beginning to bead at his forehead. Alfred wants to kiss him—hasn’t kissed him in weeks, and here he is, standing right there and yet it is as if they are strangers, or Arthur is simply his nanny.   
  
“I need to wash my car, I guess,” Alfred decides at last, because he’s looking away—looking at anything that isn’t (beautiful) Arthur, and settling on his car, parked beside Arthur’s. They’re both dusty, but Alfred’s looks worse for wear. “It’s dirty.”  
  
“Everything here is dirty,” Arthur says conversationally and Alfred almost has the balls to suggest that they do something really, really dirty. He already knows what Arthur would say ( _“We’ve already stripped all the sheets in the house, you ninny.”_ ) and is already thinking up creative places they could have sex that wouldn’t dirty the sheets or shatter Arthur’s ill-conceived notions of propriety.   
  
“Want to wash ‘em with me? We can do yours, too.”  
  
Arthur shrugs, clipping up a pair of jeans that aren’t startlingly embarrassing.   
  
“Fine.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
After nearly three hours of washing laundry, all of Alfred’s wardrobe is fluttering in the unsatisfying summer breeze. It’s later in the afternoon, so the hottest part of the day is passed and Alfred even went inside and made some iced tea earlier (the only kind of tea he was good at, according to Arthur) so already the afternoon was progressing in a promising way. And it seems that Arthur is not in the mood for work, at least until he deems Alfred’s home livable. Alfred downs the rest of his glass of ice tea, the edges sweating condensation, and places it on the railing of his porch as he jumps off onto the soft crackle of pebbles he uses for a driveway instead of pavement. He licks his dry lips, watches Arthur tip his head back and drink the iced tea, watches his adam’s apple bob, watches the sweat clinging to his skin. He’s at last shucked his tie, and his button-down is opened to the breeze, exposing his undershirt stretched over his chest.   
  
“God, why won’t you change?” Arthur groans when he opens his eyes and sees Alfred approaching him, embarrassing outfit and all.  
  
Alfred scoffs, or at least pretends to. “I’m already sweaty and I’m about to wash a car. Might as well keep the crappy clothes on.”  
  
The sun is casting long shadows across the warm expanse of his yard, but the breeze offers no respite—muggy, humid, and hot. Alfred cannot breathe, cannot swallow—perhaps because Arthur is pushing the hair back from his forehead with both hands, sighing softly and staring at the cars with such morose determination it is as if he is staring down the barrel of a gun.   
  
“Come on,” Alfred jokes, “It’ll be fun.”  
  
He deposits a sponge in Arthur’s hand and drops down the bucket he’s filled with suds and water. He holds the hose in his other hand. The sun is not as high so he doesn’t feel as bad using the water as he sprays at his car first, some of the spray splattering across Arthur’s rental car’s windshield. Arthur waits patiently, arms folded, face neutral.   
  
Arthur doesn’t move until Alfred has finished hosing down the car, and then he steps forward, wiping at the car windows with deliberate care, using the sponge to wipe away the dirt, dunking it in the water when necessary, but so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t notice Alfred following after him, swallowing the thick lump in his throat and aching to touch him.   
  
“Christ, it really is dirty, isn’t it?” he hears Arthur mutter as the older nation bends over to clean at a hubcap, caked in mud. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, his lip turning upwards in displease and it is probably the cutest thing Alfred has seen all day. Alfred turns away, scrubbing at the side mirror with the look of ultimate concentration. He is a car-cleaning master. There is nothing to ruin his concentration and his prowess. And then Arthur says, “It’s hotter than blazes out here.”   
  
And in the mirror Alfred can see Arthur straightening, tugging at the collar of his undershirt, pulling it and pushing it over his chest, causing the fabric to billow in his efforts to fan himself and get some circulation of air down his shirt. Just when he thought his mouth couldn’t get dryer—  
  
Arthur scoops up his glass of iced tea and presses it against his forehead, closing his eyes as he lets the sweating glass slide against his forehead and cheek, the ice cubes in the glass clinking together with the small movements.   
  
Alfred turns around and stares at him.  
  
And then sprays him with the hose.  
  
The squawk of alarm is so rewarding that Alfred doesn’t really mind when Arthur flails in surprise and throws the entirety of his ice tea soaring directly into his face. He feels sticky and sweaty, but it’s well worth it to see the way the white undershirt clings to Arthur’s chest.  
  
“You little fucker—!”  
  
“I was cooling you off,” Alfred protests, laughter in his voice as Arthur charges towards him, wielding his sponge like a weapon. Laughing hysterically, Alfred runs away and Arthur gives chase. They circle around the truck in a stalemate, neither able to outrun the other, though when Alfred starts to get further away, Arthur just turns around and they reverse directions and continue to miss one another.   
  
Until Arthur throws the sponge at him and it is stupidly well-aimed. Alfred sputters as he takes in a mouthful of sponge. He hears Arthur’s footsteps, doesn’t hear laughter but knows that Arthur is amused and Alfred is laughing and that is what matters—  
  
Hears the clink of the hose and turns in time to have Arthur spray him in the face with the lukewarm water—warm, then cold. It’d been sitting in the sun, and now the water was free from the tube and hitting Alfred full on the face, and against his chest. His pink-white shirt is clinging to him and he doesn’t care.  
  
“It’s a good thing you have more clothes to change into,” Arthur says, in deadly seriousness, as he finally releases the onslaught of water, cradling the hose as if it is a precious weapon.   
  
Alfred throws the sponge at him and Arthur ducks. He tries to spray Alfred again and what results is Alfred’s ducking and rolling behind the truck as Arthur tries to spray him from the other side of the vehicle, angling the water to arch over the truck and hit him. Alfred is laughing, giddy, knows he’ll never get used to laughing with Arthur (even if Arthur is trying his hardest not to laugh).   
  
“It’s evaporation, Arthur!” Alfred calls. “The sun will get the water out of your clothes and you’ll feel much cooler.”  
  
“The sun is setting.”  
  
“Not for a few hours—we’ve got until at least ten before we have to worry about that,” Alfred says, peeking out from behind the truck bed only for Arthur to pull the trigger on the hose and spray Alfred in the face. Alfred laughs, sputters, and ducks away.   
  
“I can’t believe—I was only meant to be here for a few hours at most! And yet here I am doing all your chores for you…”   
  
“Aww, come on, babe, you know you love spending time with me!” Alfred crows and snickers as Arthur bends down on the other side of the car and sprays under the car, hitting his feet. Alfred yelps and scampers away, giggling despite himself.   
  
What commences is a water war, of course. Alfred pulls numerous odd shapes in his attempts to dodge Arthur’s monopoly on the hose—and they’re wasting water and for once it seems as if Arthur is not concerned for propriety as he indulges in this war with savage determination, seemingly unwilling to rest until Alfred is soaked to the bone. The sun is hot and hanging in the sky, so both are, inwardly, thankful for the water to cool them off. Alfred’s truck is still rather dirty, and now has water spots on it from the sun drying it before they could wipe it down properly.   
  
“Dance for me, pretty boy,” Arthur says with a smirk as he sprays at Alfred and Alfred continues to dodge and roll and do his best to avoid him. But he’s laughing, and his glasses have water-spots and he doesn’t care because Arthur is chuckling, just slightly, and it’s like music to him.   
  
And in a blast of heroism, Alfred lunges into the truck bed, takes one little leap, and lands on the side of the truck where Arthur is. Arthur’s mouth opens to speak, points the hose at him, but there’s no time before Alfred has his sponge, saturated with dirty, cold water, shoved down Arthur’s back. Arthur gasps, loudly, and wriggles, squirming and trying to get the sponge out. Alfred seizes his prize with a confident laugh, holding the hose over his head in his victory. He has the satisfying moment of watching Arthur’s eyes widen just as Alfred lowers the hose and sprays it directly in his face, keeping the pressure lax so it wouldn’t hurt him from the short distance.  
  
Arthur sputters.   
  
“Okay, okay,” he gasps as Alfred continues to spray him, dancing away from Arthur when he makes an attempt to swipe the hose back. “Okay! You win!”   
  
At once the hose stops spraying Arthur and Alfred is grinning, face flushed and clothes waterlogged. Arthur isn’t much better, and Alfred likes to think his cheeks are red from holding in his laughter, not from the baking sun.   
  
“I hope we didn’t get the laundry,” Arthur says, ever the practical soul, as he wipes at his forehead, trying to get the water and sweat out of his eyes. He licks his lips, looks as if he will laugh and doesn’t. He’s looking at the laundry.   
  
Alfred rolls his eyes. “That’s what the sun’s for, Artie.”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur says, without venom. He shrugs out of his button-down, now soaked to the bone and see-through. Alfred watches the way Arthur’s muscles ripple, just for a moment, and then focuses on the slant of Arthur’s shoulders as he shakes out his shirt, trying to banish the extra water. He tosses it aside, away from the cars, and lets it fall on the ground—it’s dirty, he’ll wash it later—and pulls off his undershirt.  
  
Alfred really hadn’t expected to see a half-naked Arthur today, but he certainly is not complaining. Arthur is pretty without a shirt on, his skin smooth and pale and there’s the expanse of freckles across his shoulders that Alfred _loves_. Alfred feels himself swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, has so much he wants to say and doesn’t.   
  
“Let’s finish your truck, shall we? We still have mine to do,” Arthur says, and he only looks a little agitated—mostly amused. Alfred is still grinning like an idiot, hasn’t stopped grinning like an idiot all day practically.  
  
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Alfred says, and even salutes, collecting the sponge on the ground and dunking it in the water. “Hey, fill this up, it’s almost empty.”  
  
Instead of filling the bucket, Arthur picks up the hose and sprays at Alfred’s back. Alfred yelps in surprise, squirming away and ducking behind the hood of the truck.   
  
“Hey!”   
  
“I apologize,” Arthur says, with no hint of apology. “Take that shirt off.”  
  
“I’ll get burnt,” Alfred whines.  
  
“You and I both know you won’t, golden boy,” Arthur says, and Alfred thinks (hopes) he isn’t imagining that hint of affection in Arthur’s voice, even as he continues to spray at Alfred until the taller nation relents and tugs the white-pink shirt off over his head. “If anyone, it’ll be me who burns.”  
  
He definitely isn’t mistaking the way that Arthur watches Alfred as Alfred takes off his shirt, and he is not mistaken when Arthur’s eyes linger on his chest, trace down the lines of his body before drifting away, focusing pointedly on the truck. Maybe Arthur has missed him as much as Alfred has missed Arthur—and is just too proud to say. They are both too proud.   
  
Alfred tosses his shirt aside and flashes his winning smile at Arthur. Arthur focuses on the truck.   
  
They finish Alfred’s truck well enough, without any further interruption. Arthur wipes it down with the sponge and Alfred follows him with the hose, spraying it clean. Together, they fetch some towels to wipe it dry and at the end, Alfred, with his hands on his hips and looking quite pleased, announces it looks perfect.   
  
Arthur’s shoulders are starting to turn pink and Alfred thinks it’s really nice to look at. The day is still humid, but the sun isn’t as high in the sky and in the distance Alfred can hear the quiet cricket song. The sky, instead of blinding from the sun, is fading to a gentle dark blue and Alfred looks up at the sky with a small smile. When he looks over at Arthur again, he finds that Arthur is watching him.   
  
“My car, then?”  
  
“It’s cute, did you choose it?” Alfred asks with a snicker as he sprays down Arthur’s car. It’s not nearly as dirty, so it won’t take as long to clean. Arthur rolls his eyes and sponges at the windshield.   
  
“No.”  
  
It is a dusty old Honda with a hatchback, a dark green. It is a nice car, though not nearly as awesome as Alfred’s truck, Alfred decides.   
  
“You’re getting pink on the back of your neck,” Alfred says as he finishes spraying down the car, a quarter of an hour later. The car took far less time than the truck, but this is because washing the cars has gotten boring and both want to go inside (though the prospect of doing more laundry isn’t very appealing either).   
  
“Told you,” is all Arthur says.   
  
Alfred rolls up the hose, turning off the water supply and spraying the last of the water onto the ground so the hose is empty. He whistles slightly as he does so, coiling up the hose before heading back over to where Arthur has the hatchback open, pulling out a bag—searching for clean clothes.  
  
“You can use some of mine, if you need to,” Alfred says, leaning against the side of the car and watching Arthur.  
  
Arthur nods, absently, then shakes his head. “Hm? No. No, I’ll be alright, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred watches him, swallows thickly. His bare chest. The way his pants sag in just the right kind of way, exposing the slight roundness of his belly. The way his hair falls in his eyes. His pink shoulders and back of his neck. A few freckles.   
  
“God,” Alfred breathes.  
  
Arthur looks up at him, and zips up his bag. “What?”   
  
“Fuck,” Alfred says, feels desperate, feels the heat wearing on his senses, feels weak from having Arthur right there, seeing him, hearing him, wanting to touch him—  
  
He watches Arthur’s neck again as he swallows, watches his adam’s apple bob for the third time that day.   
  
Alfred pushes Arthur and with a squawk Arthur splays out on the back of the car, over where he’d put his luggage, over where the back seats are folded down. It’s flat. Arthur is flat on his back, staring up at him with a slightly bemused expression and Alfred knows he’s done for. It’s over.   
  
“Fuck,” he says again, breathes, drinks in the sight of Arthur—only Arthur. “I have to—I—um. Arthur. I need—”  
  
His fingers are shaking, press down Arthur’s chest. Arthur stares at him, wide-eyed but not repulsed (why would he be repulsed, anyway?) and watching him with quiet wonderment.   
  
“Alfred,” Arthur breathes, and his chest is heaving and his heart is fluttering and he’s staring up at him.  
  
“I—” Alfred begins, chokes. His fingers curl around Arthur’s waistband. He fumbles with the button.  
  
The look of understanding dawns on Arthur’s face and Arthur gasps. Then his eyes narrow, not in anger, but rather in an economic mindset. “Yes. Yes. Fuck, get them off.”  
  
So he had wanted him. The issue of pride aside, Alfred perks up. Arthur’s voice is tight with need, but he is not begging. Arthur never begs. It isn’t quite an order, either, though—almost a command. It’s enough to make Alfred shiver and close his eyes.  
  
Alfred is never one for grace, and all semblance of grace is gone as he fumbles, his movements jerky and needy and wanting— _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ …  
  
“You are a horrible boyfriend,” Alfred decides. He’s still fumbling, and Arthur looks as if he is on the verge to rip them off himself.  
  
“How do you figure that?”  
  
“You should have jumped me the moment you got here, damn you,” Alfred says, with no venom.  
  
Arthur snorts, tangles his fingers in Alfred’s hair. His head tilts to the side, his expression reading more curious than anything else and god damn it how could Arthur be so cute when he is half-naked and sprawled out like that?  
  
And he looks down at Arthur, or rather Arthur angles Alfred’s head using the fingers in his hair so that their eyes lock and Alfred isn’t focusing on undoing Arthur’s belt. And Arthur is smiling in that way that Alfred still hasn’t gotten used to and never will, even after all this time. It makes the butterflies return, makes him feel like melted butter. His heart always thuds, and his ears sometimes ring. He feels like he’ll never stop feeling so stupid and smitten and jittery and giddy. Not when Arthur was looking up at him like that, expression almost soft. Then Arthur drops a hand just so he can hook his fingers in the belt loops of Alfred’s water-sogged, ridiculous jeans and pull him up into the car’s back with him. It was like a car crash—he couldn’t look away from Arthur. He didn’t want to look away. Arthur woke up the quietest parts of himself, made him think and do ridiculous things, wanted to say all the sappy shit he never would say against every curve of Arthur’s skin.   
  
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur decides, still smiling. Then he gently sits himself up, eyes on Alfred’s mouth and Alfred’s lips part, expectantly. “My lovely.”  
  
And there’s the pet names he’d been hoping for all day. Alfred feels his stomach drop and wonders if Arthur knows what effect Arthur has on him as Arthur kisses him and Alfred kisses him back. Arthur’s mouth is not soft, never is soft, but he kisses Alfred and Alfred goes about kissing him the way he does with everything in life—impatience, nerves, and breathtaking (sometimes misplaced) certainty. Definitely like melted butter. Arthur kisses him and Alfred hungrily returns the kisses, wants to sink down and away and always, always, always—  
  
And it’s been so long but the kiss feels like it did weeks ago, years ago, what he’d imagined it would feel like before it was even a possibility. It’s different every time but yet exactly the same each time, but changed so little that it feels like such a long time they’ve been kissing and Alfred groans because _damn_ he misses kissing Arthur. He groans into Arthur’s mouth, can feel the curvature of Arthur’s smile, tastes like dust, as Alfred parts his mouth and Arthur’s tongue slides into his mouth, scraping across his teeth. It’s as if he’s been starving for him, and perhaps he had been—Alfred had been starving for him. He wouldn’t quit—he won’t quit. He wraps his arms around Arthur, a hearty feat since Arthur is sprawled across the floor of the car, with gentle certainty.   
  
Alfred thinks _I’m an idiot_ because the other shoe hasn’t fallen, won’t fall. Arthur wants him, always wants him. He kisses him. He lets Arthur kiss him. Alfred laughs against his mouth, giddy, so giddy. He presses his chest against Arthur’s, balances his weight on his hands so as not to crush the precious cargo beneath him, feels their legs tangle together, feet hanging out of the car.   
  
Alfred thinks again _I’m such an idiot_ and is content to fall away into Arthur forever but Arthur is pulling away and why is he doing that—  
  
Arthur pulls away, raising his eyebrows in that stupid way of his, still smiling in that heart-stopping, gut-flopping way. It should be a crime for Alfred to find him so damned attractive because in reality he isn’t the most attractive person ever—far from it. But the color of the car matches his eyes and that should count for something, right?   
  
Not kissing Arthur kind of sucks, but the lack of kissing means the leeway for more interesting things, and Alfred still remembers Arthur’s earlier not-begging-but-almost-command to get his pants off. So he sets about doing just that.   
  
“We’re in public,” Arthur reminds.  
  
“Whatever, we’ll hear someone coming before they hear us,” Alfred says with hurried dismissal, now content with his mission to Get Arthur Naked.   
  
Arthur closes his eyes as Alfred yanks off Arthur’s shoes, socks, and his pants. He tosses them, somewhere, not too far. Over his shoulder—out of sight, out of mind. And his eyes are only on Arthur. His fingers twitch, shift, press. He pulls down Arthur’s briefs, palms Arthur’s cock in his hand and sucks it into his mouth before he can second-guess himself.   
  
Arthur hisses out a quiet litany of syllables and makes a soft grunting sound that, from anyone else, would have been horribly unattractive but because it is Arthur and it’s _Arthur_ here with him everything he does is amazing and Alfred is beside himself. It’d been too long.   
  
He wants to tell Arthur how much he misses him when he’s gone, how much he wants to stay with him—but it’s too sappy. Too much. He doesn’t want the other shoe to drop, doesn’t want the day to come when Arthur realizes that there’s something that makes them incompatible (there has to be something—name something that isn’t, at least), waiting for a reason why Arthur can’t love him anymore. He doesn’t want it to come. He wants to love Arthur forever.   
  
Arthur is breathing through his nose, and the air is thick and heavy and humid. Alfred’s lungs constrict, he sucks on Arthur’s cock, takes more of him in—and gags slightly when Arthur’s cockhead strikes the back of his throat. He swallows more, tries to relax his throat, holds down Arthur’s hips to keep him from thrusting painfully up into his mouth.   
  
Arthur is gasping, and the sound is like a drug. It’s almost too much for Alfred—Arthur’s muscles jumping beneath his fingers, coarse hairs scratching against his nose. The sounds. The sounds are too much. Arthur, all for being proper and a gentleman, never says anything he doesn’t think through clearly, unless someone has enraged him into a screaming fit. But making indecent noises, sharp inhales and quiet groans and the quiet keens of _Alfred_ and _Yes, yes, my dear._   
  
Alfred is painfully hard in his wet jeans and damn does he hate free-balling like anything else on earth, but at that moment he’s thankful for how easy it is to pull down the zipper and pull himself out, stroking in time to the sucks he gives Arthur, passing his tongue along the underside, swirling around Arthur’s head with gentle precision. His hand is less gentle, pounding up and down along his own cock.   
  
“God,” Arthur gasps. Alfred watches him through his eyelashes, sucks harder on the cock, trying to send the older man into incoherency. Arthur’s moans are _filthy_ and though it’s not in the house, Alfred knows he’s getting his wish to make things even dirtier than the laundry and the cars.   
  
He sucks Arthur in harder, deeper, focusing on his tongue and only then remembering to keep his teeth in check, only just managing to keep them out of the way but Arthur either doesn’t notice or _likes_ it, because his head is thrashing from side to side and he’s moaning for Alfred, only Alfred, bucking up despite the hold on his hips keeping him there. He presses his cheek to the car’s carpet, lets out one little cry, and his mouth sags open as Alfred’s mouth fills with the salty taste of Arthur’s cum. Arthur’s body shudders hard, once, then twice, and he arches up, his legs taut and body quivering like a bow that’d just released an arrow.   
  
Alfred drinks him in, sucks him dry until he is weak and spent and flaccid and lets it slip from his mouth, licking his lips. He mutters something against Arthur’s quivering inner thigh, pressing a haphazard kiss.   
  
“I missed you,” he breaths before he can stop himself, but his voice is so breathless and Arthur’s breath so ragged, it’s likely that the older nation doesn’t hear him—and that’s for the best. He presses his face into the soft skin at the junction between Arthur’s hip and thigh, kissing at the sweaty skin there, tastes more salt. His mouth tastes of Arthur, his ears are pounding and ringing from Arthur’s sounds, listens to Arthur’s greedy, shuddering breaths.   
  
It’s all he needs, too, and with one last jerk of his hand, he comes, feels his orgasm hit him almost as a surprise as he jerks into his hand, clenching his eyes tight and breathing out words he’s too embarrassed to say under normal circumstances into the expanse of Arthur’s skin. He lies there, panting loudly into Arthur’s skin.   
  
Arthur lets him come down and then he strokes his fingers through Alfred’s hair. Quietly, in a tired voice, he says, “Come here, darling.”   
  
Alfred obliges, pushing himself up and crawling over Arthurs’ prone, naked body, pressing soft kisses against his sweating skin along the way. The air is too thick, too humid. And he feels so warm inside, with Arthur. _Arthur._   
  
“Do you need me to…?” Arthur murmurs, looking sated but concerned, lifting his hand to drag it down Alfred’s chest.   
  
Alfred grins, giddy, despite himself, his face flushed red. “Already took care of that, ha ha… Um.”   
  
Arthur’s face is surprised before it ripples away to quiet amusement, and he strokes the hair from Alfred’s face. Alfred nuzzles into the hand, eyes fluttering.   
  
“… You’re not wearing anything underneath those ridiculous jeans are you?” Arthur says, attentions all in the wrong (or possibly right) places.  
  
Alfred’s grin widens. “Free-ballin’.”   
  
“Jesus,” Arthur curses, then rolls them so it’s Alfred on the floor of the car and Arthur pressing over him, kissing at his chin and his jaw and his nose. Alfred tries to push his head up, brushes his nose against Arthur’s and Arthur chuckles. “Alright, alright,” he whispers, and presses closer, resting his forehead against Alfred’s. “Alright, my lovely.”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred breathes, feels his heart flop again. He’ll never get used to it, as long as he lives. He never wants to be used to it.   
  
“I would have come here sooner,” Arthur says, after a long pause. “I hadn’t realized you’d missed me.”  
  
Alfred sputters and whispers, “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”  
  
Arthur strokes his fingers through Alfred’s hair. “I heard.”   
  
Alfred grunts, then turns his head away, closing his eyes. He swallows thickly as Arthur nuzzles against his neck. He tilts his head, pressing his cheek against Arthur’s, and Arthur stills, stays like that. He can hear the breath in his ear, feel it wafting over his sticky skin. He breaths out a small sigh, feels content and perfectly relaxed for the first time in a long time.  
  
“Yeah,” he admits. “Well. You’re here now.”   
  
Alfred does not think he can control his own limbs, and he refuses to admit he’s cuddling with Arthur (though that’s totally what’s happening). So he enjoys just lying there, half-naked, with Arthur.   
  
Arthur sighs. Ever the pessimist, he mutters into Alfred’s hair but with no intention of getting up anytime soon, “We’ll never get the laundry done at this rate.”


End file.
